Take Your Dragon on a Road Trip Day
by Jet44
Summary: It all started with failing to drown a fire-breathing humanoid dragon in a hotel bathroom on Christmas Eve. When that fails, the Winchesters head up to a snowy mountain lake with a monster in the trunk. There's no such thing as a routine monster drowning, and unfortunately, they're spotted by the local game warden as they toss a humanoid form off the back of their boat.
1. Revenge of the Titanic

A scale-covered tail smacked Sam in the shoulder, hurling him sideways in the Greendale Motor Lodge's retro-rocket-themed bathroom. "What were you thinking?" he snapped at Dean. "I told you this wouldn't work!"

Dean shoved the alligator-like head of the Chara further underwater amid rapidly melting ice cubes. "Right now? Right now, I'm thinking about the life choices that led me to failing to drown a fire-breathing humanoid dragon in a hotel bathroom on Christmas Eve."

Sam seized the thrashing tail and drove it back under. "Maybe put more gold on it? I mean, the gold watch on its wrist is preventing it from breathing fire, could be more is better."

"Sure," agreed Dean as the side of his head smashed against the faded teal bathtub stall. He stepped on the back of the creature's neck and wrapped his palms around the pitted and corroded shower head to brace himself in place. "I'll go stick up a pawn shop so I can turn a Chara into Mr. T before drowning it in a hotel bathtub. 'Cause I'm classy that way."

The water started to steam, and the Chara struggled harder. It let out a trilling growl that resonated through the coarse, scaly hide under Sam's grip. The shower head gave way with a loud crack, and Dean threw it aside with a disgusted grimace. Kneeling, he mopped sweat from his face and shoved the Chara further below the surface.

"This feels kinda cruel," said Sam as the growl took on a higher pitch. "Maybe we're just waterboarding it."

"Fine," muttered Dean, letting go of the flailing monster and shaking the sleeves of his flannel shirt with a disgruntled grimace. "Maybe you got a point. We need an icy lake. And beer. Lots and lots of beer."

"I'm right," insisted Sam. "The lore says Charas were offspring of mating between dragons and crocodiles. For a time, early tribes revered them as gods of fire and air, until the tribal leaders decided that their red coloring meant Chara were devils. These tribes started hunting the Chara, so the Chara burned their villages and ate them. The Chara mutated after eating human prey, and developed humanoid bodies, while keeping the tail of the crocodile and the head of a dragon. Chara lived in water like crocodiles to keep their body heat low. They nearly destroyed human civilization in the region until one winter the lake the Charas lived in froze over, and most of the Charas died. They live in water, Dean. A bathtub and ice cubes wasn't ever going to be enough to kill one. Just freezing it won't work either."

Dean sighed. "Help me get it to the car, then. It's Take Your Dragon on a Road Trip Day."

The two brothers dragged the Chara out of the tub. Its arms and legs were bound with zip-ties, and they'd muzzled its dragon-like jaws with duct tape. Yellow eyes with reptilian slits narrowed in predatory lust. There wasn't much to be done about the tail, which lashed out and took Dean off his feet in the water-drenched bathroom.

"I don't think we're getting that damage deposit back," said Dean, scrambling to his feet and overlooking the blood on his elbow.

"You mean, the Wrigley Finance Corp's travel expense card won't be getting its deposit back?" said Sam.

"The Wrigley Finance Corp's also gonna be confused as to why they paid for two cinderblocks and ten feet of chain at the local hardware store," said Dean.

He and Sam lugged the Chara out of the room into the thin dawn light and hefted it into the trunk of the Impala. "We're gonna need to go all mob hit on its ass and sink it in the deepest, coldest lake we can find."

* * *

The deepest, coldest lake they could find ended up being Lake Wenatachi, elevation 7000', depth 918'. It was a six-hour drive, and an annoying one, up narrow, twisting mountain roads.

"That thing better not mess up Baby's trunk," muttered Dean. Snow was accumulating along the side of the road, and large flakes drifted down from a blank gray sky before hitting the windshield and melting into a sloppy mess.

"That's why we also charged the Wrigley Finance Corp for a tarp and two drop cloths at the Talbot Pharmacy and Sporting Goods," Sam reminded him.

A white full-size truck with a light bar and state game warden emblem on the door flew past in the opposite direction, splattering the Impala with thick muddy slush.

"Think the clerk was giving us the, 'Is this a murder kit?' look?" asked Dean, glaring over his shoulder at the truck.

"He was," said Sam. "I was just hoping you wouldn't decide it was time to go shopping for shovels and lye while we were there."

"The joint has a sign outside advertising drugs, ammo, and cleaning supplies, and they give _us_ the side-eye?" said Dean.

"I wonder what they do if you ask for a hockey mask and a hunting knife," said Sam. "Offer the buy one, get one special on bleach?"

"Chainsaw," said Dean, child-like glee settling on his face. "I've always wanted a chainsaw. Why don't we have a chainsaw?"

Sam chuckled. "You ever used a chainsaw, Dean?"

"No, you?"

"Yeah, once," said Sam. "Helping Bobby cut firewood. They're heavy and noisy. They'd be terrible for hunting."

"Yeah, but they're _scary_ ," said Dean. "I think we need one."

"I veto the chainsaw," said Sam firmly. "Haven't you noticed every weapon we use eventually gets used on us? I'm not stitching you up after a chainsaw 'incident' and that's final."

"But - chainsaw!" said Dean, looking determined to argue the point.

"Let me put it this way," said Sam. "They come with a warning, 'Do not attempt to stop chain with hands or genitals.'"

"Eew." Dean recoiled, grimacing and clenching his legs together. "Ugh. That's just _wrong_!"

Sam pulled a map out of the glove box and studied it as Baby's powerful engine propelled them up the side of the mountain through slush thickening to snow.

It would not be a pleasant afternoon to go out on the water, but for now he could enjoy the heater's warmth within the cocoon of their home on the road. This was one of his favorite parts of life, riding in the passenger seat of the Impala with Dean's comforting presence to his left and the drone of the engine and the road lulling him into a relaxed state where monsters and hell and conflict eased away with each mile that passed. He traced the lines of the roadways with his fingertip.

"Okay," said Sam. "Take a right on Highway 210 up ahead, and in about twenty miles we should see a cutoff for a small marina on the right. With any luck, it'll be abandoned in this weather."

"Unless someone's holding a Christmas Eve party on the water," said Dean.

"I'm thinking this place is less Christmas parties on yachts, and more creaking rotted docks and metal fishing boats," said Sam.

"You couldn't bother to find us a decent marina?" complained Dean. "One with expensive pleasure craft and women in bathing suits? You know what cold weather does to their, ahem -"

"Yeah, I know, James Bond," said Sam. "You do realize what cold weather does to yours, right? Unless this hypothetical woman has a fetish for the miniature..."

"Shut up," Dean grumbled. But he gave Sam's arm an affectionate shove, and Sam grinned.

* * *

"This place smells like sea monsters," said Dean as they hauled the Chara down a rickety wood dock, his feet skidding on a slushy mix of ice and snow covering partially-rotted planks. He got clobbered on the shoulder with a bright red, scaly tail in response.

Lake Wenatachi in summer would be postcard-perfect. The circular alpine lake sat low in what looked like a vast crater surrounded by rustic lodgepole pines. The dock extended out onto the surface in an invitation to fishermen and boaters. Now, early winter brought threatening clouds that lurked low over the rim of the mountain, making late afternoon light struggle to pierce the gray gloom. Snow hadn't yet blanketed the landscape, so what lay before them was a soggy patchwork of trees still clinging to the hope of fall.

It wasn't too hard to hot-wire a modest but sturdy boat with a tiny cabin and engine room. The last coat of varnish it received could have been carbon-dated, and it came with a free abandoned bird's nest on the bow, but it didn't seem to be leaking anywhere critical.

A threatening growl emitted from the trussed-up monster as they heaved it onto the deck of the little craft, which swayed and bobbed when the brothers boarded.

Sam took the tiller and pulled away from the dock. He shivered when snow melted on his face and ran down his neck and under his collar. The layers he wore were warm, but not waterproof. The cabin was open at the back and did nothing but block the wind. He glanced over his shoulder.

Dean was attaching chains and cement blocks to a very pissed-off monster, and his hands were clearly numb from the way he was botching it. The sway of the small boat on waves kicked up by wind over the lake didn't help. Neither did that damn tail. After a couple of minutes Dean came forward to stand in the cabin's windbreak, puffing, his cheeks red and his breath forming clouds. Flakes of snow melted into his hair and dripped down his skin.

"You look like a Chara yourself," said Sam.

"Next time, you attach cinderblocks to the angry dragodile," said Dean.

"Dragodile? _Really_?"

"Crogon?"

"That at least sounds more monster-y," said Sam. He cut the engine. "We're at the center of the lake. Let's do this."

"We gotta keep the gold watch," said Dean. "Thing's worth like six grand."

"Soon as we take it off, the Chara will be able to breathe fire again," said Sam. "Bad idea."

"That's our hard-earned - okay, hard-stolen gold," said Dean, with a mulish set to his jaw that said the watch would come off no matter what Sam said.

"Okay," said Sam, "How about we balance the Chara and the blocks at the edge of the platform at the back of the boat, facing away from us. We unclasp the watch from its wrist and shove the whole lot overboard."

"Sounds good " said Dean.

The two of them wrangled the thrashing red monster into position, Dean unlatched the watch, and Sam shoved with all his might.

The Chara splashed overboard, and the cinderblocks sucked it below the surface with a speed that made the lake look sentient - and hungry. Dean grinned, and Sam returned the grin with a high-five. He went forward and started the motor.

Only to have the entire bow of the boat erupt in flames.

Sam glanced sideways at Dean.

"Ru-roh," said Dean, shrugging his shoulders a split second before he plunged off the starboard side.

Sam launched himself off the port side and landed with a splash in water so icy it seared him and stole his breath away. He swam away from the boat, turning when pain in his chest from exertion in the extreme cold became overwhelming.

He was just in time to see the thrashing Chara's snout emerge one last time from the water to blast the boat with fire. The creature's enormous strength must have returned along with its ability to breathe fire, but it was losing the battle with the cement weights. The red snout slipped under the surface, and where the boat had been, Sam saw white.

Diving on pure instinct before he even registered the explosion, Sam escaped the worst of the blast. His shoulder hurt though, and when he surfaced, blood-red water ran off his arm.

"DEAN!" he yelled, his heart pounding from more than the exertion.

His wet clothing threatened to drag him under, and he worked to kick off his shoes while he frantically scanned the surface of the water. The boat was gone. The water was so cold, it burned, biting his skin and stealing away his breath.

"DEAN!"

Sam swam towards the wreckage with every bit of strength he had, clawing through waves that slapped him in the face and felt like they were made of solid ice.

"DEAN!"

"Sam," a weak voice answered, followed by a shallow cough.

His brother looked waterlogged and dazed and was struggling to keep his head above water. Dean's clothing was weighing him down too, and Sam hauled off his own jacket and shirts, leaving only the pants to be dealt with. It had the effect of making him feel warmer and freed him to use his full strength to swim.

Dean didn't look like he could swim; he was barely treading water, and his eyes held the grim determination that Sam had learned long ago masked Dean Winchester in terror. It was a sight that ripped at Sam's soul. This was a threat that couldn't be defeated with a weapon or fists or even words, and Dean was crippled by his inability to fight.

"Hang in there," said Sam, gripping Dean's shoulder hard and looking around. He spotted a large chunk of torn-up wooden planks, part of the side of the boat, bobbing up and down maybe forty feet away.

"Come on," Sam ordered in his sternest voice. "We need to swim. You need to take your shoes and clothes off."

Dean glared at him, teeth chattering. "Not an idiot. Shoes off. Pants - jacket - can't get."

His brother was shaking, the cold robbing him of coordination. Sam could no longer feel his fingers or feet, but he'd adapted in a way and could at least move. He unzipped his own pants and kicked out of them to make this easier, then helped pry the struggling Dean's jacket and shirts off. He tried fumbling for Dean's pants only to be met with an angry, "Hey!" and decided enough was enough.

Sam hooked Dean's left arm over his shoulders. "Come on," he ordered. "Swim."

Dean clung to him and kicked and paddled as much as he could. Sam focused on keeping his eyes on the dark, bobbing float ahead and ignoring the cold seeping into his bones as he helped propel his brother through the water.

When they reached it, Sam used his remaining strength to help Dean onto the jagged remains of the boat. His entire body had an ice cream headache, and he wanted to close his eyes and let it be over, because he was on the way to dead. But no way in hell was he giving up and leaving Dean alone to face the world.

"No - you -" croaked Dean.

"No," said Sam firmly. "I have more body mass than you, it'll keep me alive longer. You need to be out of the water, now."

With Dean on top of the debris, clinging to it, shaking, and looking like a bloody, drowning rat, Sam surveyed the situation. The shore was too far to swim to in this icy water, and there were no signs of civilization. Their only hope was that someone had heard the explosion and would come investigate, or they could somehow muster the strength to take turns swimming while dragging the waterlogged mess of torn planks.

Or Cass. Castiel hadn't been within praying range for a long time, but... "Castiel, if you can hear my prayers - we need a hand right now. This - this could be it for us. Please, if any of you angels are listening-"

"Son of a bitch!" said Dean explosively, startling Sam into halting his prayer.

"What?"

"I'm in Titanic! And I'm the chick! In a chick flick! A _chick flick_ , Sam..."

Sam had to smile, and pressed his forehead against the water-slicked wood.

"Get your ass up here, Jack," growled Dean. "I am _not_ re-enacting one of the lamest moments in cinematic history, with my brother as the mopey heroic dead guy."

Sam eyed the "raft." There was, maybe, technically, room for both if they were willing to lie more or less on top of each other. Which might be a good idea for conservation of warmth.

"How many times have I told you, no chick-flick moments! Do I look like fucking Kate to you? If you don't get your ass up here, I'm jumping off."

"Okay, okay," said Sam. It was precarious, but with his very determined older brother's help, he scrambled on. He ended up half lying on top of Dean, and the raft settled so low into the water it swamped them with every bob and dip of the waves.

"That's b-better," said Dean, his teeth chattering. "If we die, we die cuddling."

Sam chuckled, and held Dean's shoulders with arms he couldn't feel. The cold was a spreading, sleepy ache. Even like this, they wouldn't make it for long. It would just replace drowning with a slower death from hypothermia.

But no matter what happened, he wouldn't be letting go of Dean. Everything was a little better, just from holding him.


	2. Catch and Release

State Police Fish and Game Warden Austin Peterson floored it onto the parking lot of the Lake Wenatachi Marina, wondering what in God's name to call in over the radio. What he'd really seen wasn't an option.

 _So, dispatch, I saw two guys murder a bright red crocodile-human hybrid by chaining it up and throwing it overboard in the lake. But I must have been wrong, it was actually a dragon, because it resurfaced, breathed fire, and blew up their boat._

That was a one-way ticket to the funny farm if there ever was one.

The two guys, if they'd even survived, could be dangerous. Backup would be good. But they wouldn't survive the waters of the lake long enough for backup to arrive, and even now they'd be weak when he fished them out.

"I heard fighting on board, then a loud explosion, and the boat was just gone. Gonna take the boat out to look for survivors, can you send an ambulance and backup my way?"

"Sure thing, Peterson," said the dispatcher.

Warden Peterson grabbed his gear bag, first aid kit, and a wool blanket along with his shotgun from the back of the truck, and ran to a sleek white jet boat tied to the dock. It belonged to the State Police, who used it in the summer to patrol the lake for fishing license violations and drunk boaters. Fortunately for the two men out there, they hadn't found time to retrieve it for winter.

He headed out across black water under a sloppy gray sky, the prow slapping against sucking waves while wind blew snowflakes into his hair and face. Peterson scanned for wreckage while the engine rocketed him through one jolting ridge of water after another.

How was he supposed to react when he found them?

What he'd seen was a murder, if one set aside what exactly was being murdered. Or was it? Would he call any one of the hundreds of deer hunters who roamed these woods murderers for filling their tag? The creature was clearly dangerous, and they could have been killing a dangerous nuisance... dragon man? The humanoid form was messing him up. Had this been a murder, or self-defense at best and animal cruelty at worst?

Best to arrest and question them, and decide from there. See just what sort of folk they were, but treat them as highly dangerous in the meantime.

If they were alive. First the explosion, then this water, this weather - it was akin to being on the surface of a deadly smoothie, with the blades of a blender lurking below, waiting to suck them in. There might be no one left for him to find.

He slowed when he reached the first of the debris and steered in a broad circle until he spotted them. It was like a scene out of Titanic, if Jack and Rose had a lick of sense. They were clinging to the largest scrap remaining of the boat, and the bigger of the two gave him a feeble wave.

Smart guys; they'd taken their shoes and clothing off to avoid getting bogged down in the water. The big one had long hair and was in his boxers. Blood slicked his skin from the back of his shoulder and down his left arm. The smaller one with a crew cut was wearing only jeans, and looked like he was bleeding from a head wound.

The men were conscious if weak, and both met his eyes and surveyed him with a confidence that didn't match their plight all. They were evaluating whether he was a threat.

"Howdy, boys," said Peterson, bringing the boat around so he was just out of range. "I'm gonna open by saying I saw what happened out here. You two are under arrest until I can wrap my head around that, and I'm armed and ready to defend myself. But I'm here to rescue you. Got it?"

"Got it," said the smaller one, who hardly qualified as small. He just looked that way compared to his companion, who was built like a moose. These two were capable of killing a fire-breathing dragon-crocodile-man; a game warden wouldn't be any trouble for them. Peterson would buy either or both as ex-military, especially Crew-Cut.

Peterson grimaced. Best to do this the mean way, damn it. Coming right up to the raft, he'd risk getting overpowered. He pointed at the big one on top. "Get off the raft and swim over here."

The guy obeyed, wincing when he hit the water, and struggling to stay above the surface let alone make progress towards the boat. Guilt made Peterson shiver. He'd just ordered a wounded and hypothermic man into frigid water and made him fight for rescue.

As soon as the man was in grabbing range, Peterson grabbed him and helped him scramble on board. The guy was heavy, and weak and cold to the touch.

"Face down on the deck, hands behind your back," ordered Peterson.

The man almost fell to the deck, and Peterson cuffed him, trying to block out his cry of pain when his injured shoulder was wrenched back. The man lay still while Peterson tied his legs together with a loop of rope. When he was finished, Peterson reluctantly ordered the second guy into the water and repeated the process.

With two trussed up and soaking wet men on board, Peterson turned towards shore, traveling slow so as not to jostle them on the waves.

"I'm Game Warden Austin Peterson," he said. "I'm with the State Police. Who are you? Remember, I saw that freak show, so don't bother lying."

"Dean Winchester," said the crewcut one. "Thanks for the rescue."

"Sam Winchester," said the big long-haired one with the bunged-up shoulder. "And - yeah - thanks."

These two should look terrified and desperate after their near-death experience, and at least slightly worried about being under arrest. They were bloody, bruised, and almost blue from the cold, so they should also look... completely and utterly miserable.

They didn't. They struck him as calm, alert, and at ease.

"What exactly am I saving you from?" asked Peterson. They didn't answer.

He backed down on the throttle until the boat bobbed dead in the water. He was a decent judge of character; had to be when his job was confronting armed men alone in the woods. These two were frighteningly capable, but they struck him as being on the right side of good and evil.

"You two can sit up," said Peterson. "You're what, brothers?"

"Yeah."

They were too cold to sit unaided, and Peterson tried hauling them to opposite sides of the boat to sit them facing each other. Crew-Cut jerked away and twisted to throw his restrained body closer to his brother. The big one tensed and yelled "Dean" when Peterson tried to move him. He was too damn heavy to drag on a rocking boat without some semblance of cooperation.

"Okay, fine," said Peterson, sucking in a lungful of icy, wet air. These two were _resisting_ him? Over being on opposite sides of a boat? "You two wanna sit together, is that it? I'll lean you against the back of the boat, but you need to try and make this easy for me."

He had to smile when two simultaneous nods answered him. Damn. What he wouldn't give for a bond like this with his own brother. Thank God they'd both survived.

Now that he actually had their cooperation, he helped them sit before pulling two emergency blankets from his first aid kit and wrapping them around each man as best he could. Then Peterson picked up the wool blanket and spread it over the two, tucking it in around their shoulders.

"What's with the mob hit on exotic wildlife?" asked Peterson.

"We're hunters," said the one who'd introduced himself as Dean. "The creature you saw was a Chara. Eats people, breathes fire. About every myth or legend you've heard about things that go bump in the night is based in some kinda reality. When they come after people, we hunt them down and kill them. The only way to kill a Chara is to submerge it for a long time in ice-cold water."

"What the ever-loving hell?" said Peterson.

"Hell's real too," said Sam.

"It's a lot to take in, I know," said Dean.

"So you two - sort of kill nuisance wildlife?" asked Peterson. "Like we do with bears that come after campers?" It was the only way he could wrap his head around it.

"In a manner of speaking," said Dean.

It sounded batshit insane. Too bad he'd seen it with his own eyes. Too bad these two men struck him as levelheaded and entirely sane.

"Thing looked part human," said Peterson. Seeing their reaction to this question would give him more of a hint as to what sort of men they were. "I'll be honest, I feel like I witnessed a murder. You guys ever relocate critters, catch and release, that kind of thing?"

Their eyes both softened in a pleasant way; they liked him for asking that question.

"Not usually," said Sam. "Most of the time, what we hunt has already killed people. That Chara has the remains of three innocent kids in its stomach. We're not killing for fun, but - these aren't kittens. We can't open a no-kill monster shelter."

Peterson studied Sam. He had kind eyes that were focused and determined despite the fact that he was so frozen his lips were purple and his skin blotchy white. He was well-spoken and intelligent. Sane.

"Sometimes what we hunt looks human," said Dean. "Shapeshifters, vampires, that kinda thing. That sounds like it could be hard, but by the time fangs head for your throat, it's no different from taking down a human serial killer. But every so often, if what we're hunting turns out to be sentient and able to convince us they aren't a danger to humans... We're not murderers or sport hunters. We're doing this to save people."

Dean made Peterson a little more uneasy. Reminded him of military special forces; not bad, possibly even heroic beyond measure. But a little too comfortable with the dark and violent side of the world. What Dean had that the really scary folk didn't, though, was the willingness to look him in the eye and let him see a decent human soul. Dean meant what he said about doing it to save people.

Peterson sighed and turned the engine back on. He believed them.

Almost.

"You must've had other contacts with law enforcement," Peterson said. "You got anyone in my field who can vouch for this insanity?"

"Jody Mills, Sioux Falls Sheriff's Department," said Dean.

"And Donna Hanscom, Stillwater Sheriff's Department," said Sam. "They've both been with us on hunts."

* * *

Dean closed his eyes in relief while the game warden made his phone calls and steered them towards the shore. He was dizzy, frozen, and barely capable of moving, let alone dealing with an arrest or a dangerous human. Sam slumped against his side, for warmth and support. They seemed to have been rescued.

Warden Peterson slipped his phone back in his blue-gray uniform pocket. "Sheriff Mills suggests giving a simple explanation, like one of you lit a cigarette while the other was adding gas to the tank, boat caught fire and blew, I picked you up. That okay with you boys?"

"Perfect," said Dean.

"You're in rough shape," said Peterson. "I've got an ambulance en route."

Dean forced himself to lift his head and deal with this. He was almost unbearably sleepy, a symptom of hypothermia. He expected Sam to start snoring any minute now.

"Prefer to stay out of the hospital, if there's any place we can hole up for a bit," said Dean. "We're good at field first aid. Got a friend named Bobby nearby who's decent at patching us up, too."

Peterson was silent for a minute, then sighed. "I got a hunting cabin a half hour from here I'm not using right now. It's stocked with water, food, firewood, and basic bedding. If you promise not to die there or murder anything in it, you can use it until you're ready to move on."

"That's perfect," said Dean. "Thank you, Warden."

The warden made a grumbling noise. "How do I reach this Bobby?"

After they tied up at the dock, Peterson reached for Sam, and Dean tensed, ready to attack. His brother was limp against his side, and vulnerable as all hell.

 _Down, boy_ , Dean warned himself. It was strange being beat to shit, handcuffed, tied up, and in the hands of someone who meant them no harm. The warden nudged Sam's upper body forward with care, waking him, then unlocked the handcuffs and untied his ankles before returning the foil emergency blanket around his shoulders.

Peterson put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Sorry I was kinda hard on you boys when I picked you up. I didn't enjoy that, just so you know."

"You picked us up and listened, that's the important thing," said Dean, leaning forward so the warden could uncuff him. "Thanks. It's nice to meet one of the good guys now and then."

Peterson helped Dean to his feet, and the two of them got a pale and wobbly Sam up and out of the boat. Peterson had to help support them both along the length of the dock, and jabbed a thumb in Baby's direction. "That your rig?"

Dean tensed. "Yes."

"You can't drive in this condition, and I'm about to take you a fair bit aways from here. Want me to throw you two in the back of your car? I can have my backup pick me up from the cabin when they show."

Dean glared at Peterson, evaluating him anew. The guy seemed capable behind the wheel of a boat...

"Not a scratch," warned Dean.

Peterson chuckled. "Don't worry, I won't beat up your baby. She's in awesome condition. Figured you wouldn't want to be abandoning a classic like her in a wilderness parking lot."

"Can you adopt us?" asked Sam with a grin.

"Shut up," muttered Dean.


	3. To Hot Chocolate and Office Supplies

The game warden brought the Impala to a halt in front of his cabin, a rustic affair made of actual overlapping logs with a corrugated metal roof spotted with rust. A deep veranda sheltered a cast iron barbecue grill and a pair of Adirondack chairs.

The interior walls were formed by the simple warm wood surface of logs. The centerpiece of the front room was a large fireplace with a brick chimney, facing an overstuffed brown couch littered with warm throws. A set of bunk beds sat behind the couch, and the left wall held a simple kitchen with a propane stove, a metal sink, and a row of cupboards.

A door at the back of the front room led into the rear end of the cabin, where Warden Peterson pointed out snowshoes hanging from a pair of shed antlers, wool blankets, canned food, and water in rectangular blue plastic jugs. He gave them his first aid kit, started a fire, and brought in tons of wood to keep it stoked. Outside, snow was falling heavy on the ground as light faded.

The warden lit three oil lamps as the growl of an engine approached and purred to a halt outside. His ride back to his truck, no doubt.

"No electricity," he explained. "But that fire'll heat the place up good. Drink lots of hot liquids. Sure you don't want me to glance at your injuries? I'm concerned about leaving you alone up here."

"We're good," said Dean. "Been through lots worse. Bobby'll be here soon, and if anything goes sideways, he can run us to the hospital."

Dean liked and trusted Peterson as much as it was possible for him to like and trust a stranger, but he was weak, and Sam was hurt. He didn't want to put those vulnerabilities on display.

Peterson gave him a shrewd look, understanding. "You can call if you need me. Be gone next time I come up here, and stay safe on your hunts."

Once they were alone, Dean rummaged through their bags. This had been a quick hunting trip, and they had packed little that hadn't been layered on them to beat the cold - and sacrificed to the lake. What they had was a set of spare underwear, socks, and...

Fed suits. Son of a bitch. At least they were wool.

Dean removed his wet pants and the emergency blanket, toweled off, and dressed. He had no plan to put on the belt and tie, because why?

Then the hilarity of it hit him. They were half-drowned, holing up in a cabin with no power in the woods in a gathering snowstorm miles from anywhere. And they were going to do it in freaking _fed suits_.

He donned both belt and tie, and adjusted his tie at a jaunty angle. Blood seeped from the back of his head, so Dean scrunched up paper towels and pressed them to the general area, tying them on with an ace bandage.

He knelt beside Sam, who sat slumped in front of the fire, his head hanging. Sam had saved his ass out there on the lake, but it'd taken a lot out of him. Sam's extra body mass had given him the edge in withstanding the cold enough to swim them to that raft. But blood loss was catching up with him now, leaving him weakened in the face of hypothermia.

As long as they could trade off like this, each with their moments of strength to carry the other, they'd keep making it. Now, it was his turn to carry his brother.

The game warden had left them with his first aid kit, and it was a good one. Miles above what rattled around in the Impala's trunk; they didn't tend to have time for fancy first aid on the road. Tonight though, seemed like they were pretty well set to do this right.

Dean set the first aid kit down on the creaky wooden plank floor and knelt beside Sam. His skin was white, and cold to the touch. Except where it was red. Blood spread out along his back and left arm from his left shoulder, and it looked like an exploding chunk of boat had hit him there. The main problem was a jagged piece of metal that had hit his shoulder blade, deflected, and traveled under the skin instead. It was the sort of thing that should land him in the hospital, to make sure all the fragments got out of the wound and that the bone wasn't damaged.

"How's it look?" asked Sam.

"Welp, you're dying," said Dean. "Any last words? Want your ashes scattered out there on the lake?"

Sam snickered under his breath. "Least now I know I'll live. If you'd said, 'You're gonna be okay, Sammy, you're gonna be just fine,' I'd have known I was done for."

"You're pretty much okay, except for you've got a chunk of boat under your skin," said Dean. "Normal people would have this surgically removed."

"Since when are we normal people? Can you do it?" asked Sam, his voice weak and rough. He inched closer to the fire, his head still down.

"Can I slice your skin open above it and pull it out? Sure. I just think you might still need little pieces surgically removed, and antibiotics and shit. If you're gonna end up in a hospital anyway, why suffer through field surgery at the hands of a guy who can't feel his hands and hasn't had any beer?"

"I - I'm okay here," said Sam. "I won't be okay in an ambulance, or hospital. Lucifer - is staying out of my head for the most part, but if I go under anesthesia - I'm scared."

"Okay," said Dean. He rubbed his face with his hand. He didn't want to do this. Cutting and blood - during his own time in hell, he'd been torn, ripped, flayed... Sam surely had too. A simple, quick slice on the shoulder was nothing compared to what they'd both endured.

But Dean had been the one holding the knife. Too many times. In hell, when he'd become the Devil to those poor souls he tormented to stop his own suffering. He'd tortured demons and others with it topside. His own darkness threatened to erase his humanity even when he wasn't in hell. Taking a knife to his own brother felt like crossing the one line he hadn't obliterated. The one thing remaining that he wouldn't do.

Sure, it was to help. But all the other horrible things he'd done with a blade were justifiable too. There was always a reason. It always seemed like the best option, just like right now. But the choice to cross those lines remained his, and it tired him. It tired him, shoving away his humanity and telling it, "This is different, shut up and go away."

Austin Peterson, the game warden, had seemed like a decent sort. He'd come across the two of them when they could barely move, injured, doing everything they could to stay out of the water and alive - and ordered them right into the water to get rescued. It made perfect tactical sense, it was smart, and he'd even told Dean he hadn't enjoyed it. Even good, normal men in the real world sometimes had to do things that felt ugly.

Peterson had reclaimed his own humanity with his admission to Dean, the grip on the shoulder and sideways apology. He'd faced and acknowledged what he'd done.

"Lie face down flat on the floor, okay?" said Dean. "I - my hands might shake. Cutting on you... crosses lines for me."

Sam positioned himself on the floor with a sigh of relief, glad to be playing no role in supporting his own weight. His sweet, intelligent eyes sought Dean's. "I've been through so much worse, you know. This is nothing. Even if I scream - it's a tiny blip on the radar."

"I know," said Dean, his chest tightening. He was too worn-out and bone-cold right now to pretend that it didn't shatter his heart into a million pieces to think of Sam, his sensitive little brother Sam suffering in hell for - for so, so much longer than Dean had before he broke and did unspeakable things to escape torture.

"That's the problem. I know," said Dean. "And you know what I did, so - you know why it's hard for me to think of cutting into you."

"I trust you, Dean," said Sam. "I trust you. You're better than you think you are. Those souls you hurt in hell - it would've happened to them anyway. They were in hell. Maybe they even grasped that a decent soul was behind that blade, and it gave them some measure of comfort. I know it would have for me. I trust you."

Tears escaped Dean's eyes. "They could've been you. People like you. I can't - talk about this anymore. I can't think about you down there in that cage, and still do this."

"Okay." Sam's eyes looked red and watery too. He flailed around with his left hand until he patted Dean on the kneecap.

Dean flooded the area with povidone iodine solution, and forced himself to pretend this was a stranger he was trying to help, not his brother. He made the cut over the metal shard fast and clean with one stroke, and Sam barely flinched, just sucked his breath in and held it. Blood splattered onto the front of Dean's white shirt and blue tie from the speed with which he'd cut, but it wasn't spurting or anything. So far, so good.

Pulling the metal shard out was harder, twisting and pulling on damaged tissues. Sam's whole body went rigid, and he let out a deep groan that turned into a muffled scream.

Dean's stomach roiled, threatening him with revolt. He gasped in relief when he finally got the thing out, and covered for his rapid, shaky breaths by squirting sterile saline into the wound with a bottle with a handy irrigation tip and frantically rubbing Sam's arm to distract him.

"Easy, Sammy. It's gonna be okay. It's almost over. It's almost over. Hang in there."

Sam was taking short, rapid, pained breaths himself, and responded with a heart-wrenching moan when Dean poked around the injuries in his shoulder, squeezing more saline into the area to wash away the blood and seeking fragments. His fingers were just regaining sensation, so it was a clumsy process.

He watched Sam's breathing, which felt like it was drilling into his own heart, hurting him when Sam hurt. Dean stopped when Sam's breath hitched, pressed forward when he was still, and kept his legs pressed close to Sam's side to steady him.

Dean found and removed five shards of metal, and set the bottle down at last. He was going by sight more than touch and just had to hope he'd gotten them all.

"Done," said Dean. "I just need to stitch it up, if the first aid kit that guy left has sutures in it."

"Okay," said Sam, his face hidden in the crook of his arm. "You - you looked like you were bleeding bad from your head."

"I bandaged it," said Dean. "Whatever it is doesn't feel bad. Bobby can check it out when he gets here."

Sam started to shiver, which was a good sign. It meant he was coming back from the dangerous, about-to-die-now phase of hypothermia.

 _Why didn't I cover him with a blanket?_

Dean cursed himself for zeroing in on the injury and not the cold, and spread a warm blanket over everything except Sam's upper body. The crackling fire was putting out a fierce blast of heat, and the blanket seemed almost for show compared to that, but it made his brother look cared for instead of just dumped on the floor.

He rooted around in the first aid kit and came up with not a suture kit but a stapler.

"Huh. Ow." He studied it and flipped open the sterile package to read the instructions. "It's a disposable stapler for humans. This just seems - _wrong_ ," said Dean.

" _That's_ what seems wrong to you?" asked Sam, amused. "Everything we see and do, and a surgical stapler rubs you the wrong way?"

"Why couldn't the guy have just packed a sewing needle and some dental floss?" complained Dean. The idea of stapling his brother gave him the creeps.

"Oh, I don't know," said Sam, strength returning to his voice. "Maybe he's a competent professional with a good idea of what to carry in a wilderness first aid kit? And maybe grandma's sewing kit didn't make the cut?"

"It's a friggin stapler, Sam!"

"This coming from the guy who wanted to hunt with a chainsaw? Just hurry up and staple me together already."

"That does sound kinda badass," admitted Dean, sitting down beside his brother and giving the instructions another read-through. Nothing in them warned that it would be particularly painful or anything.

"A lot more badass than sewing," said Sam.

"Where do you buy these things, anyway?" asked Dean. "I'm starting to think we need to carry one in the trunk."

"I got no idea, and you're stalling," said Sam, an affectionate grin in his eyes if not on his face. Seeing him look like that filled Dean with relief, and Dean swatted the back of his head.

"Shut up."

Dean positioned the first staple, gritted his teeth, and squeezed the handles together. There was a click. Sam didn't flinch. He pulled the stapler away and saw a neat oval of metal holding the edges of the skin together.

"What'd that feel like?" asked Dean uncertainly.

"Like getting a shot," said Sam. "It's - okay."

His brother sounded relieved, not stoic, so Dean went to work.

* * *

Sam tried to stop shivering, but it was impossible. He hated that it might be mistaken for trembling while Dean was working on him. The last thing Dean needed was to think Sam didn't trust him completely right now. Thanks to the cold, Sam could barely feel the wound in his shoulder, more so a generalized pain when Dean pulled on things.

Pain was welcome when it came, dragging him out of Lucifer's world and into the one where he had a safe and caring brother to help him when he was down. Dean was doing everything he could to minimize that pain, adjusting his movements whenever Sam's breath hitched and making reassuring little shushing sounds.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was terse and hard. The worried kind of hard. "You 'fraid of me right now?"

"No," said Sam. "No. I'm just cold."

"You're not seein' some Luciferish hellscape version of me brandishing a knife and Milton's favorite office supplies?"

"No, Dean, it's fine. I feel - cared about, and safe."

Dean let out a long, relieved breath. "You are. Trust me."

"I do," said Sam in a soft tone. "Completely."

Heaven, in a way, was lying by a fire shivering with a blanket tossed over his back as a hasty afterthought, being stapled up by a guy who hilariously had to be convinced it was a manly alternative to stitches before he could do it. There was a ten-mile-long list of people, monsters, and demons who would laugh him out of the room for even thinking this, but Dean was a sweetheart.

A tough, scrappy, angry, tortured sweetheart. There was nobody in this world or any other Sam felt safer with, and the peace of being alone with him in this quiet sanctuary in the woods was the sort of memory that had kept him at least somewhat sane through hell, and would keep him grounded in reality now.

Dean finished stapling and bound Sam's wounds, patting and smoothing the bandages a little more than he needed to while Sam relished the caring contact.

"Move," ordered Dean.

Huh? Sam raised his head, annoyed at having his blissful moment interrupted. "Why?"

"You're hypothermic, and lying on a bare floor wearing wet boxers in a puddle of blood and saline," said Dean. "I know, all in a day's work. But this place is actually nice, so I say we don't pretend it's -" Dean's voice halted "- a cell somewhere with vampire bats and rusty chains."

Hell.

The unspeakable experience they shared, and couldn't talk about. Logic would say now they both knew the depths of the agony and shame, they'd be able to lean on each other. Instead, Sam just understood why Dean couldn't talk about it. Couldn't even reference it.

Dean touched the back of Sam's hand with his own, and left the contact there, not speaking. They could only share this absent words or eye contact. This was as close to mutual comfort as it got, without shattering things that might not come unbroken again.

"I know," said Dean. "I - love ya', okay? Don't you ever stop fighting."

Sam nodded and squeezed Dean's hand. "We - we got this. Together."

They sat in silence like that while Sam's soul ached, and not from anything that'd happened in hell. This was what it was to share a profound bond in continual jeopardy of being broken.

Sam reluctantly sat, grimacing when he saw the puddle. Dean hadn't been kidding. Dean tossed him a towel, and Sam scrubbed the mess off his chest and side while Dean mopped up the floor.

He was just warm enough, and just giddy enough from the endorphin rush of being cut on and stapled, to notice what Dean was wearing. A fed suit. Dean was mopping up blood in a fed suit. With a _tie_.

Sam grinned from ear to ear and fought back a laugh. It was so awesomely absurd. When Dean said he'd bandaged his head wound, he meant he'd grabbed a giant handful of paper towels, jammed them against the back of his head and neck, and crisscrossed the area and his head with an ace bandage to hold it on. Dean's hair was poking out between strips of the ace bandage at random angles, one ear was squished, paper towel edges flapped around the side of his neck, and blood stained the white collar of his dress shirt.

Finished wiping the floor, Dean stood and fetched a pile of clothing. Sam couldn't help a chuckle when Dean handed him a complete FBI impersonation kit.

"Laugh all you want. Pants and jacket are wool. It helps," said Dean, walking into the back room of the cabin.

Sam stripped, dried himself off, and pulled on dry boxers, socks, and pants with a sense of relief. He got one arm into the shirt, but his injured shoulder rebelled at going any further. Even shirtless, he was about twice as warm; Dean was right, lying in a puddle in wet fabric wasn't an awesome hypothermia treatment.

Dean re-appeared bearing two wide camping pads, with a pile of blankets over his shoulder. He unrolled the pads in front of the fire, side by side.

"Figure we need to stay by the fire, not in the bunks, until we warm up," explained Dean, spreading a brown and red Native-American-patterned blanket over the two pads. He stood and wiped his palms on his suit pants. "Need a hand there?"

"Sure," said Sam.

Dean took hold of Sam's wrist, and maneuvered the sleeve on with a light, careful grip. His brother was a force of nature, a killer of monsters and demons, a formidable fighter of things so dark most people couldn't comprehend them. But when he touched - not hit or wrestled, just touched - Dean Winchester was a tender man. That was where his real nature hid.

The back of Dean's hand pressed up against Sam's chin, raising his head in a touch that could only be quiet companionship masquerading as getting access to Sam's collar and buttoning it. Sam closed his eyes, savoring the moment of unspoken love between them. This was Dean's secret. Not that he could be dark and violent and cold. But that when he was alone in a quiet cabin buttoning up Sam's shirt, he had a warm core of gentle caring.

Finished with the shirt, Dean squeezed Sam's uninjured shoulder. Then he held up a tie with a hopeful expression, rapid up and down waggle of his eyebrows, and the grin of a seven-year-old.

Sam snorted.

"Bobby's coming," said Dean. "Imagine him walking in, seeing us holed up here in Wildernessville, all log cabins and axes and ghosts of dead deer wondering what in the hell folks wanted with their antlers. And here we sit cosplaying the Men in Black."

"Okay, fine," said Sam. He'd never, ever admit even on his deathbed that he was saying yes because he wanted his older brother to stay close a while longer. Feeling safe and loved was a rare and fleeting thing. There was still a small, intimidated boy in him somewhere who hero-worshiped Dean and felt more secure in his presence than anywhere else on earth, heaven, or hell.

Having fastened the tie loose around Sam's neck, Dean held the jacket so Sam could slip his good arm in. Then with that gentleness Sam cherished, he eased it on over Sam's injured arm, hugging Sam against his side when he finished. Dean needed these moments of companionship and affection as much as Sam.

"Lie down," said Dean curtly, to make up for his transgression in hugging Sam.

Sam did so, relieved. His shoulder was aching from the movement of getting dressed, but at least some vestiges of warmth were returning to his body. Dean spread a thick, soft blanket over him, pulled it up over Sam's shoulders, and tucked it in. Sam closed his eyes and heaved a contented sigh. This could be heaven, if it wanted to be.

"You're like a puppy!" said Dean.

"No, I'm cuter," said Sam, smiling but refusing to open his eyes.

Dean walked over to a little kitchenette in the opposite corner of the cabin, lighting a gas burner and putting on a kettle. He returned minutes later and nudged Sam's arm.

"Drink up." Dean handed him a metal cup filled with steaming hot chocolate, and a bottle of ibuprofen.

Sam dumped a pile of the pills into his palm and gulped them down, closing his eyes for a moment when the hot, sweet liquid hit. He glanced out the window. Snow was falling outside, turning the world white.

Dean handed Sam a pillow, and wiggled under the pile of blankets next to Sam, sipping at his own drink. The fire popped and crackled, radiating warmth out at them like a sheltering force. Lucifer tried one of his taunts, but he looked defeated before he even started. Sam mentally plunked a Santa hat on him, wrapped his smirking head in tinsel, and ignored him. He shut up for once, recognizing defeat.

This was like the Christmases Sam used to daydream about but never got. He and his brother together by the fire, snowed in with nowhere to go and nothing to fight, not even each other. The scents of wood smoke and hot chocolate filling the room, warm firelight and oil lanterns reflecting off warm-colored logs and soft, clean blankets instead of a budget hotel room.

"Nice hideout," said Sam.

"Amazing what a difference four walls and a fire makes between out there and in here," said Dean.

Sam glanced sideways at him. The tortured, hunted expression was gone from his brother's face, replaced with relaxation and peace. It was the sort of expression that made Dean look younger and softer.

"You good?" asked Dean.

"Yeah," said Sam. "You?"

"Yeah. I get - places like this make me get why you're always chasin' normal. It's a good feeling. You're here, things ain't all monstery, we've got hot chocolate..."

Sam wiggled closer and shoulder-bumped his big brother.

Dean raised his mug in a toast. "To hot chocolate."

Sam grinned and raised his cup. "To hot chocolate."

They relaxed, shoulder to shoulder, bundled up in front of the fire. Sam cautiously slumped closer to Dean's side; his older brother had a cuddly streak, but he roped it off behind flurries of sharp elbows and macho posturing. It was easier for Dean to cry than to cuddle, much to Sam's chagrin. Once a little brother, always a little brother.

"What are you, five?" asked Dean, right on cue.

"Cold," said Sam.

"Uh-huh," said Dean, sipping his drink. "And I've never, ever, not ever, seen a porno that started with, oh, no, we're so cold, we have to share body heat."

"So you're saying I have the body of a porn star- OW!" yelped Sam. There was the elbow.

"Shut up," muttered Dean.

"You won't comfort your wounded little brother in his time of need?" asked Sam. "Jerk."

"Fine," replied Dean, wrapping an arm around Sam's back and pulling him against his side. "Have it your way, bitch."

Sam heaved a deep sigh of contentment, closing his eyes. The fire was fixing the hypothermia.

His big brother relaxed next to him, holding him like he used to when they'd fall asleep in a cozy mess of tangled limbs in the Impala's back seat on the road... This was fixing the cold.

They never had a home to speak of, but they didn't need one. Because this was home. The two of them, side by side against the world, in silent warmth and caring.


	4. Christmas Eve in Fed Suits

"Well ain't you two just the picture of domesticity," said Bobby, stomping to clear snow from his boots and tossing his cap on the faded avocado folding table that sat between the door and the kitchen. A blast of cold air entered with him. "Wood fire, wool blankets, hot chocolate... monkey suits. You plannin' to cuddle yer badges, too?"

Dean straightened his tie. "We prefer to be well-dressed for our cosmopolitan après-swim visits to the vacation house, yes."

Sam grinned. "It adds ambiance. Also, most everything else is at the bottom of the lake with a Chara and some poor guy's boat."

"Caint you boys handle a simple monster drowning without bringing the game warden down on your asses?" asked Bobby.

"Apparently not," said Sam.

"Seems we should've had a Chara tag," said Dean. "Guy's big on catch and release."

"Well, seein' as he applied that philosophy to you two idjits, I suppose I approve. What's that abomination on your head, Dean?"

"Oh, my expert field-bandage?" asked Dean, raising his eyebrows. "I was a little busy operating on my brother."

Bobby sighed. "Sit down, I'll look at 'cha." Pulling away the paper towels, Bobby grumbled. "Bloody mess."

"Does he need stapling?" asked Sam.

"What in the hell?" asked Bobby. " _Stapling_?"

"Yeah, uh, Dean found a surgical stapler in the first aid kit and used it to put my shoulder back together," said Sam.

"Good times," said Dean. "Good, old, wholesome, bloody, fun."

"Speak for yourself," said Sam.

"You boys got some odd notions of fun," said Bobby, wetting gauze with the iodine solution and dabbing at the back of Dean's neck. "Hand me the damn stapler. This is a nasty cut."

Sam passed it to him, wincing. The idea hadn't seemed bad at all when it was him, but the idea of watching it done to Dean made him shy away.

Bobby pinched the two sides of the cut together and positioned the stapler while Sam watched through half-closed eyes. Dean yelped when the staple shot into his skin, and Bobby grabbed the hair on the back of his head to steady him.

"Hold still and stop actin' like a girl," said Bobby, affection in his voice betraying the hard words.

"Sam didn't act like it hurt! It hurts!" Dean complained, wincing.

"Could've let me do it," said Sam. "Since it's so fun."

"Shut up." Dean closed his eyes and held still, keeping his jaw set and his breathing deliberate, only flinching once while Bobby finished closing the cut.

"Done," said Bobby. "That thing's kinda handy."

Dean just sat there with his head bowed, like he was accepting some sort of punishment, that frighteningly stoic expression on his face. Not joking, not acting tough. It concerned Sam, and he nudged Dean when Bobby went out get things from the truck.

"You okay?" asked Sam, keeping his voice low.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Jus' don't like seeing you hurting, I guess," said Sam.

Truth was, Dean's cracks were showing this evening. He'd been too scared out on the water, given up too easy until he'd realized Sam needed to be saved. Been too guilt-ridden while treating Sam, reacted too oddly to Bobby just then. He was too fixated on the slight pain from that stapler, which was nothing more than a sharp pinch.

Sam wished he'd insisted on checking Dean's injury before Bobby got there, so whatever this was, Dean could go through it in private.

"Feels like I crossed a line, Sam." Dean's voice wavered and cracked despite himself. "I sliced into your back with a friggin' hunting knife and put metal staples in your skin and you acted like it was nothing! It hurt! I sat there like it was nothing, like a pure psychopath, and operated on you without anesthesia. Damn it, I could've been at least a little more-"

"Worried?" asked Sam. "You know what I felt? I felt safe, and protected, and cared for. And don't lie to either of us about being some psycho. I felt every bit of how much doing that bothered you. Just the way it bothered me watching Bobby do that. You didn't hurt me, a chunk of some guy's boat did."

Dean wouldn't look at him, but the relief on his face was plain. "You really felt safe? You weren't afraid of what I'd do with that blade? You weren't seeing Lucifer when I cut into your fuckin' skin?"

"I wasn't afraid, Dean," Sam reassured him. "Not for one second. I never will be. Not of you. I'm scared _for_ you. I'm afraid you'll start thinking you're a monster, and you'll think you deserve to be punished or even die, and you'll just throw yourself on the nearest sword and call it saving the world instead of self-flagellation or giving up. You're just human. You're so fucking human. You're good, Dean. I believe in you."

"How can that be? Things I've done..."

"I've seen you with vulnerable people," said Sam. "Seen you gentle and kind. In our life - we're fighting evil in ourselves as well as in the real world. I've done terrible things too, are you afraid of me?"

"No - I believe in you, Sammy. Like, a lot. I'd put my life in your hands any day of the week."

"Then trust that I feel the same," said Sam.

Dean's expression lightened when Bobby entered with bags in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

"Anyone around here need a little hunter's helper?" asked Bobby. "I know I sure as hell do."

"I love you, Bobby," said Dean, grinning and jumping to his feet.

"You're s'pposed to say that after you get plastered, not before," said Bobby, plunking the bottle down on the table and setting the bags on the couch.

"Rules aren't for me, Bobby. I'm a renegade," said Dean.

"Yeah, yeah. Go fetch the glasses, Renegade."

Dean went over to the cupboard while Sam helped unpack the bags. Thermal long underwear, with a foil bow stuck on each pair. Meatloaf. Baked potatoes. A big container of chicken noodle soup. Clean dry socks. Pie.

Sam grinned. "Merry Christmas Eve, Dean! He brought pie!"

"Man's my hero!" said Dean, slamming glasses down on the table.

"First booze, then dinner, then dessert," said Bobby firmly.

* * *

"Brrr," said Dean, clasping his upper arms with a theatrical shiver. "I'm getting Titanic flashbacks."

"Okay, okay, Kate," said Sam. He wiped six inches of accumulated snow off the trunk, popped it open to get at the wrapped presents within, and looked up at the falling snowflakes. "Kinda pretty, though."

Snow blanketed the ground and cushioned the limbs of trees. Large flakes drifted down from the sky soft and quiet, creating a landscape of muted twilight beauty. The cold was an unseen force urging them back to the cabin and the warm light beckoning from within.

"Yeah." Dean shuffled his feet. "You good?"

"It's Christmas Eve, remember?" said Sam. "Just us, and Bobby. I'm not even tied to a chair getting my fingernails pulled out by pagan gods."

"Yeah, that was gruesome," admitted Dean. His head fell, and when he spoke again, his voice was faint. "And - it was the last Christmas before starting a nice little life sentence in hell..."

They were silent for a good minute, heads bowed against the snow. Hadn't celebrated Christmas since that day. Hadn't celebrated much, really.

"Ready to give this Christmas thing another shot?" asked Sam.

"Yeah - I'm looking forward to presents, don't get me wrong. I love presents. But being with you, both of us alive and mostly-sorta well, that's a gift. That's one hell of a gift, Sammy."

Sam hugged Dean tight. "You're one hell of a Christmas present too. This is a good night."

Dean returned the hug with fierce sincerity, snuggling his chin into the notch where Sam's neck and shoulder met and holding on for dear life. "It is."

* * *

"I have one request, giving you this," said Dean. "Don't you ever, ever, make me look through it for clues on how to find you because you've gone missing somewhere, or read it to look back on the good old days 'cause you're dead. Okay?"

"Okay," said Sam, baffled.

Dean tossed him a badly wrapped package covered in reindeer, and Sam tore the paper open to reveal a large, thick journal covered in dark brown leather embossed with warding symbols. Each symbol was meticulously painted in with silver and gold. It closed with a snap engraved with a devil's trap.

"Did the leather work myself," said Dean. "This old guy at the shop taught me how, it was pretty cool."

Sam looked at the first page, where Dean had written:

 _Sam,_

 _Hunters keep journals, or so they seem to. You'd be good at it. I never wanted to because every journal I've ever looked through belonged to someone dead or missing. But they've saved us, and saved other people. Knowing our work was still out there helping people when we're gone would be kinda nice. So don't you dare leave me holding this and remembering you. We're gonna live, both of us, because we're never gonna give up. When it's time, we go together. If you ever, ever think about giving up or sacrificing yourself, read this, because this is me begging you not to._

 _Dean_

Sam gulped and rubbed his face. He'd expected something irreverent and funny. Not something that'd make him almost want to cry.

"Thanks," whispered Sam. "I'll do my best. Jerk."

"You'd better. Bitch," said Dean, ruffling the hair on the back of Sam's head.

"Well-" Sam tossed Dean his present, wrapped in a muslin cloth he'd found in the bunker. He'd barely had time to have the thing custom-made, never mind tracking down wrapping paper. "We were on similar themes."

Dean untied the string holding it all together, and unfolded the cloth to reveal a leather shoulder holster. The saddle shop had made it of hand-tooled golden-brown leather, and looked like something the FBI might issue - if the FBI had been running around the old west with demons on its ass. It had traditional flourished tooling, like a saddle, but Sam had gotten the crafter to work in anti-possession sigils and other protective marks from lore far and wide.

Dean's grin was so all-encompassing, he looked like he was about to bounce up and down in glee. "This is so cool! It's like Clint Eastwood and John Wayne had a baby and it was a really hot FBI chick who knows Enochian!"

"So, you're saying it's gay?" asked Sam, raising his eyebrows and smiling.

"No. No. The union of Clint and John would be the manliest - well - not like - maybe it is, okay? But if it were, well - that'd be one cool kid."

"Wow," said Sam. "I knew you had a Western fetish, but I wasn't prepared for the depths-"

"Shut up! This thing is friggin awesome, don't ruin this for me with pedantry! Best Christmas ever, and I do mean ever."

Dean put the holster on over his white dress shirt, adjusted it, and folded his arms with his eyes narrowed in the most blissed-out smirk possible. "This is awesome."

Sam grinned. "Got a stick?"

"For what?" asked Dean.

"To beat the girls off with."

Dean struck a pose and waggled his eyebrows as an odd expression came over his face. "Wait - beat - girls off with? Oh, yeah, I got a 'stick' that can do that..."

"I don't want to hear about your 'stick', boy," growled Bobby.

Sam hid his face in his hands, shaking his head. "Welcome to Christmas with the Winchesters."

"Time for more whiskey," said Bobby.

"Speaking of which..." Dean stood and handed Bobby a box. "You should open this."

Bobby opened the lid, and his eyes widened. "Johnnie Walker Blue? What'd I do to deserve this?"

"Not really sure," said Dean. "I forgot. Musta saved our lives once or something little like that."

"Once? More like a dozen," said Bobby, a happy glow on his face. He kicked his feet up on a chair and tossed Dean a box wrapped in pink paper with birthday candles scattered on it.

Dean ripped it open without comment, and pulled out a bottle of Car Guys liquid wax, cleaner, and tire shine spray in shiny black plastic bottles with white lettering, along with a huge, soft chamois cloth.

Dean pounced on his toes. "These were made for her! It's like it's Christmas around here or something!"

Bobby tossed Sam another, far smaller pink package. "Dunno if it's mightier than a sword, I got my doubts on that score."

Sam tore the paper away to reveal a black cardboard box, which opened to display an ivory pen with a silver cap.

"It's a fountain pen," explained Bobby. "The barrel's made of horn, an' the cap's silver. Iron gall archival ink, just like what they used to write most of the old manuscripts."

Sam swallowed back a lump in his throat and rubbed his eyes. "Merry Christmas. It's a damn merry Christmas. Bobby - Dean - thank you. Thank you."

"Merry Christmas," said Bobby, hiding a grin and uncapping his gift.

Dean wrenched open the door, scooped up a handful of snow, and hurled it at Sam's uninjured shoulder. "Merry Christmas."


End file.
